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444eggnog · 3 days ago

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I've Been Waiting for You

✍︎: this story is heavily inspired by Mamma Mia, one of my all-time favorite films. i haven’t seen any F1 x Mamma Mia AUs quite like this (at least not with these exact characters!), so I thought, why not? i hope you enjoy unraveling the mystery: who’s Sam, who’s Harry, who’s Bill? let me know your guesses and your thoughts, i’d love to hear it all. ♡ (i also have a few more AUs sitting in my drafts that I can’t wait to share soon. also, thank you for reading my very first post. it means the world.)

content: coming-of-age, romance, drama, slice of life

list of characters: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, George Russell, Toto Wolff

wc: 6k

excerpt:

Y/N wanted a fresh start, something quiet, something hers. Away from the chaos. Away from the noise that always followed her father. Sure, being Toto Wolff’s daughter came with perks, but the weight of his name, the pressure, the attention, the legacy, was far louder than anything she could bear.

So the moment she graduated, she disappeared.

No press release. No grand goodbye. Just a one-way ticket and months of research leading her toward something she can call her peace. In just a few days, she’d be in San Vicente, Palawan: a sun-drenched municipality tucked along the edge of the Philippines, where the ocean was blue, the air was still, and no one knew her name.

She could already picture it: salt in the breeze, silence in the mornings, peace so full it ached. She wasn’t there yet, but soon… she wouldn’t be Toto Wolff’s daughter. She would just be Y/N. And for the first time, solitude wouldn’t be a dream. It would be real and it would be hers.

─── 🏁

Y/N sat at the airport with her passport dangling loosely in her fingers, staring blankly at her freshly painted nails, the same neutral pink she’d chosen for graduation, which had ended not even 24 hours ago.

She should’ve been on her way to Palawan by now. But instead, the overhead speakers had just announced a delay. Heavy rainfall on the island. All flights postponed.

Devastated and restless, she slung her bag over her shoulder and marched out of the terminal, pushing past other travelers until she found a waiting taxi. She opened the door, climbed in—

And someone climbed in on the other side.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, whipping her head around. “Who the hell are you? This is my taxi!”

The guy blinked, caught halfway through setting his bag down. He looked like he hadn't expected confrontation, especially not from someone with sharp eyes and graduation nails.

“Oh. I—uh—sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t trying to steal it. I thought it was still open. My flight got delayed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Palawan?”

He nodded.

“Well,” he said softly, offering a half-smile, “I guess we were going to be on the same flight.”

Y/N sighed, the irritation starting to dissolve into tired acceptance. He didn’t seem like the type to push his way into a cab for fun. And the rain outside was starting to fall harder. Great.

She scooted an inch toward the window. “Fine. But don’t talk.”

He chuckled, settling into the seat beside her as the driver pulled away from the curb.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he said. Then, after a beat: “Nice nails, by the way.”

She turned to glare at him. He looked straight ahead, pretending not to smile.

They found a modest roadside motel just off the highway, nothing fancy, just clean sheets, working locks, and a roof that didn’t leak.

“Two rooms,” Y/N said firmly at the front desk, already fishing for her card.

The stranger nodded. “Of course.”

But when the receptionist handed them their keys, Rooms 4 and 5, side by side. He glanced at her with a quiet, thoughtful look.

“Guess we’re still neighbors,” he said.

She gave a tired smile, the kind that slipped out when she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. “Just don’t knock on my door.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “Unless the roof caves in. Or the power goes out. Or there's a spider.”

They both laughed.

─── 🏁

That night, as the rain tapped against the window and the buzzing motel sign painted the walls in flickering light, Y/N stared up at the ceiling, wide awake.

The sheets were cold. The silence was louder than she’d expected.

She’d left home to find peace but maybe peace wasn’t meant to look like this. Maybe it wasn’t meant to feel like loneliness.

Maybe this was a sign she didn’t have to be alone tonight.

So she did the one thing she told him not to do. She knocked.

The stranger opened the door almost immediately, like he’d been sitting by it, unsure if he should do the same.

They stood there for a moment; two strangers bound by circumstance, sleep-deprived and emotionally raw.

“I can’t sleep,” she admitted. “I hate motel ceilings.”

“I’ve been counting the cracks in mine,” he replied gently.

She stepped inside.

“Hold on,” he said with a half-smile, “I don’t even know your name.”

She hesitated for a second, then smiled. “Y/N Wolff.”

He repeated it under his breath, almost like a secret. “Y/N Wolff.”

Then he hummed, amused. “Wolff? Like the animal?”

She laughed. “Yes, just like the animal.”

“Well, my name’s Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”

She tilted her head, studying his face. “That sounds made up.”

He chuckled. “Coming from the girl whose last name is literally an animal. But I swear, it’s real. I can show you my passport if you don’t believe me.”

She gave a small smile. “Well, Oscar Piastri... I knocked. So that’s gotta count for something.”

He smiled back, gentler this time. “It counts for everything.”

She learned he was from Melbourne. That he liked the silence but hated long layovers. That he’d never done anything like this before.

He learned she had a complicated last name. That she didn’t know what she was running from, only what she was running toward. That she had no idea what tomorrow looked like, and maybe didn’t want to.

As the rain fell harder, and the room grew colder, their bodies shifted closer on instinct. The space between them shrank with every word, every glance.

Until talking stopped.

Until fingers traced jawlines. Until foreheads touched. Until lips met like it was something inevitable.

Clothes slipped to the floor. Her hands tangled in his hair. His fingers gripped her waist like she might disappear.

No promises. No expectations.

Just a moment carved out of stormlight and impulse, where nothing mattered except right then.

And in the quiet that followed, as the storm softened outside, Y/N thought: This wasn’t what she planned. But maybe, for one night, it was exactly what she needed.

─── 🏁

The next morning, she slipped out quietly.

No alarms. No door creaks. No drawn-out goodbyes.

She stood in the motel bathroom for a minute, lipstick in hand, staring at the foggy mirror. The same shade she wore to graduation the day before. A soft, warm pink. Fitting, maybe, for a night like that.

She pressed the tip to the glass and wrote:

Thanks for warming up my night. Don’t look for me. Good luck on your journey, Oscar Piastri. Kisses. 💋

She capped the lipstick, took one last glance at the room, at the messy sheets, the echoes of laughter, the quiet she no longer feared and left.

A few hours later, Y/N sat by the airplane window, one leg curled under her as clouds drifted past like soft promises.

Below her, the world stretched open. Islands waiting. Oceans glowing.

San Vicente, Palawan.

She could almost see it already. Salt in the breeze. Silence in the mornings. Space to breathe and build something new.

She leaned her head against the glass, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Whatever was waiting on the other side of the globe, it would be hers.

And no one would know her there.

─── 🏁

The sun dipped low over San Vicente, casting golden light across the town plaza as music and laughter filled the air. Streamers fluttered above the streets, children danced barefoot in the dust, and the scent of grilled seafood and sweet banana fritters clung to the breeze.

It was the town’s yearly fiesta, five days of joy, devotion, and celebration. And for the first time since arriving, Y/N felt like she belonged.

She moved with ease through the crowd, offering soft smiles, exchanging greetings in half-learned Tagalog, even accepting a flower crown from a laughing grandmother. Her hair was braided. Her hands were sticky from mangoes. Her heart, strangely, didn’t ache.

That’s when she saw him.

A stranger, sun-kissed, with sleeves rolled up and a quiet focus in his eyes. He was helping a group of locals unload a cart brimming with crates of drinks and trays of pancit. He lifted with ease, moved like he’d done this a hundred times before, though she could tell from his awkward “salamat po” that he was just passing through.

Still, there was something about him.

Something that made her heartbeat stutter, made her hand pause mid-wave. Like her body recognized something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

He looked up. Right at her.

And smiled.

She quickly turned away, heat blooming at the base of her neck.

But a few minutes later, after the crates had been stacked and the villagers clapped him on the back in thanks, he wandered toward her. Slowly. Like he was trying not to spook something delicate.

“Hi,” he said, stopping just a step away from her. His voice was light, slightly amused. “Are you from here?”

She shook her head, smiling. “No. New in town. Kind of.”

“Well, you wear that flower crown like you’ve lived here all your life.”

She raised a brow. “And you carry those crates like you grew up doing it.”

He laughed. “Touché.” Then, extending a hand: “I’m… well, I’m just visiting.”

She took his hand. “Okay, just visiting. I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N…” he repeated, then waited, brow raised.

She hesitated, then added, “Wolff.”

He tilted his head like he wanted to ask more, but let it go. “Well, Y/N Wolff. I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Is that what this was? An accident?”

He grinned. “Call it fiesta luck.”

─── 🏁

They spent the next few days caught in the rhythm of celebration, dancing under strings of lanterns, sharing halo-halo from a plastic cup, wandering through market stalls and beach bonfires.

She laughed with him. Laughed fully.

And each night, when the music faded and the town quieted beneath the stars, she found herself wondering what would happen when the fiesta ended.

But for now, she let herself stay in the moment. With him.

With the stranger who hadn’t yet told her his name.

The fifth night of the fiesta came wrapped in sea breeze and slow music. The kind that drifted through the streets like memory, tugging people closer together.

Y/N sat on the edge of the dock, legs swinging over the water, her flower crown now wilted and slipping to one side. Beside her, the stranger leaned back on his hands, looking up at the stars as if he didn’t want the night to end either.

They’d spent five days like this, entwined in a quiet rhythm of mangoes and music, inside jokes and lingering glances. She knew his laugh now. The way he squinted at the sun. The little scar on his nose he hadn’t explained.

But not his name.

She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “So. You ever gonna tell me your name, mystery crate boy?”

He looked over, lips twitching like he’d been waiting for her to ask. “I was wondering how long you’d let me get away with that.”

“Well, I figured if you were a serial killer, you were at least very polite.”

He laughed, then turned his gaze out to the water, suddenly a little quieter. “It’s Lando,” he said after a beat. “Lando Norris.”

Y/N’s smile faltered, just barely.

He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to.

“I figured it was time you knew,” he added gently. “Even if you keep calling me mystery boy in your head.”

She looked down at her hands in her lap, fingers absentmindedly spinning the silver rings she hadn’t taken off since graduation.

Norris.It echoed somewhere in her memory. Familiar, but foggy. Like a name she’d overheard once, half-remembered from a past life she’d long since tucked away.

Maybe it was nothing.

She nodded slowly, brushing it off. “Well… Lando Norris,” she said with a small smile. “It’s nice to officially meet you.”

He grinned at her like she’d just said something important. “It really is.”

─── 🏁

Later, when the music had faded into the background hum of waves and distant laughter, he walked her home beneath a sky full of stars.

The cottage was quiet when they reached it, modest, weathered, the kind of place that smelled like salt and old wood. He hesitated outside, hands tucked in his pockets.

“You want to come in for a bit?” she asked, already reaching for the key tied around her neck.

He looked up. “Only if I’m not intruding.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t have asked if you were.”

Inside, she lit a candle on the table. The glow flickered across his face as he walked around, taking in the books scattered on the floor, the half-hung tapestry, the sandy flip-flops by the door.

“This is yours?” he asked.

“For now,” she said. “It’s rented. Still smells like the last person who lived here.”

“I like it.” He sat down at the edge of her daybed. “It suits you.”

She poured two glasses of water, handed him one, then sat across from him, knees tucked to her chest.

“So,” she said. “Bristol?”

He nodded. “Born and raised. Spent most of my time in go-karts before I could legally drive.”

“That tracks,” she teased.

He grinned. “I like fast things. Love cars. I stream sometimes too. Games, mostly. It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly. It’s cool.” She sipped. “You’re doing what you love.”

“And you?” he asked gently. “You said you’re new here.”

She hesitated. “Just graduated high school.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but not in judgment.

“My dad wants me to go to college,” she continued. “But… I want to carve my own path. Away from him. Away from all the noise.”

He nodded, listening, not interrupting nor pressing.

“So that’s why I’m here,” she said. “Palawan felt far enough.”

There was a beat of silence, soft and full.

“You seem brave,” he said.

She laughed quietly. “I feel like I’m just winging it.”

“Sometimes that’s the bravest thing.”

─── 🏁

The longer they talked, the smaller the space between them became. He leaned back against the bedframe, and she inched closer, her arm resting on the pillow near his.

Her laugh had gotten quieter. His gaze had grown softer.

And then, without saying anything, he reached up.

Gently. Carefully. Slowly.

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger just a second too long against her skin.

Her breath caught.

His hand moved again, tracing lightly along her jawline, his touch featherlight, reverent.

She looked at him, eyes wide but unmoving, lips parted as though caught mid-thought.

And he moved in.

Not rushed. Not unsure. Like he’d known from the first night of the fiesta that this was always where they were headed.

He kissed her.

And the whole cottage went still.

Outside, the waves kept rolling. The moon kept rising. But in that moment, all she felt was the warmth of his mouth, the steady pulse in her throat, the quiet knowing in her chest that whatever this was had already started to mean something.

She didn’t pull away.

Her hand found his, fingers curling between his like they’d done it a hundred times. Like this moment had been waiting for them since the very first glance across the festival crowd.

He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. One hand resting at the small of her back, the other still cradling her jaw like she might vanish if he let go.

And she let him in.

Let him trace the curve of her shoulder as he slipped the strap of her top down with careful hands. Let him pause when their eyes met, her breath shaking slightly as he waited for her nod.

Her top fell away. Then her skirt. And then his shirt followed, landing softly beside hers on the floor like petals being shed.

They moved like music. Quiet breaths, wandering hands, soft laughter when knees bumped awkwardly or when her hair caught in his fingers.

There was nothing rehearsed about it.

Just skin warmed by candlelight, hearts trying to speak without words, and the way his thumb stroked her cheek like he couldn’t believe she was real.

She felt weightless in his arms. Anchored and adrift all at once.

And when he whispered her name, low, she felt something in her unravel, like a thread gently pulled loose, not broken.

They made love not with urgency, but with wonder.

Like two people discovering something sacred in each other.

Like the world outside had gone completely quiet, just for them.

Later, wrapped in blankets and each other, her head resting on his chest as the fan hummed overhead, she listened to the rhythm of his breathing. Steady. Calming.

Her fingertips traced lazy lines over his ribs, memorizing him in the dark.

And just before sleep pulled her under, she thought—This was the first thing that felt right. He felt right.

─── 🏁

The sky outside was beginning to bruise with dusk when Lando stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over one shoulder, hair still wet from the ocean. Y/N was curled up on the couch, flipping through her old notebook, wearing one of his oversized shirts that hung off one shoulder.

It was peaceful. Golden.

He thought maybe this was what people meant when they talked about belonging.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

She didn’t notice, too focused on whatever half-written thought she was reading so he reached to slide it toward her.

That’s when he saw the screen.

“Dad Calling.”

The name was so familiar it didn’t even register at first. But then the surname popped into his head.

Wolff.

His hand stilled over the phone.

And then he said it quietly and carefully. Like he was checking if the air around them would change:

“Wolff... like Toto Wolff?”

Y/N’s head snapped up. Eyes wide.

And that was all the answer he needed.

There was a moment, barely a second where they both just stared at each other. Nothing moved. Not the fan, not the trees outside, not the ocean.

Then she sat up, slower now, placing the notebook down.

“Lando—”

“You’re his daughter?”

She didn’t deny it. Just pressed her lips together, jaw tight.

He let out a breath, hands on his hips. “You’re Toto Wolff’s daughter and you didn’t think that was something I should know?”

“I didn’t want you to know,” she admitted. “That was the whole point of coming here.”

His voice was quiet. “So you were hiding.”

“I was protecting myself.”

“From me?”

“No—” she stood, crossing the room, “from everything that comes with that name. The questions. The assumptions. The way people stop seeing me and just see him.”

He looked at her, and for the first time in days, it felt like he was seeing someone he didn’t fully know.

“You watched me unpack my whole life to you,” he said, shaking his head. “And all this time…”

“I never lied,” she cut in. “I just didn’t offer it.”

He exhaled hard, like he didn’t know what to do with the weight in his chest.

“Jesus. I was falling for you, Y/N.”

The way he said it made her knees weaken.

“I didn’t want to be someone you fell for because of who I was or someone you’d walk away from because of it,” she said, eyes glassy.

Lando ran a hand through his damp hair. “I wouldn’t have.”

“You say that now.”

Another silence.

Then: “When were you going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t.”

And that, somehow, hurt more than anything else.

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to accept it.

Then he looked at her again, really looked and she saw it: the shift. The beginning of distance.

“I have to pack,” he said finally. “Early flight.”

He walked past her toward the bedroom, leaving behind only the scent of saltwater and fading sweetness.

Y/N stood there, alone, her heart beating loud in a cottage that suddenly didn’t feel like home anymore.

And for the first time since arriving on the island, she felt like a stranger in her own skin again.

─── 🏁

The suitcase sat by the door like a clock ticking.

Y/N stood at the edge of the kitchen, barefoot, arms folded, watching as Lando zipped up the last of his things. The morning was warm, but her skin felt cold.

Neither of them had said much since he found out.

“I leave in an hour,” he said. “Monaco called. They want me there early for media rounds.”

She nodded, like that was just another weather report.

“I want you to come with me.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t move.

“Y/N, I’m just starting. Everything’s opening up. The seat. The team. This could be it.”

“I know,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

He stepped closer, reaching for her hand, curling his fingers around hers. “You don’t have to hide. You don’t have to run anymore.”

“But that’s just it, Lando,” she said, pulling her hand away slowly. “You’re running toward it. I’m running to get away.”

His expression faltered. “It doesn’t have to be either-or.”

“Yes, it does,” she said, firmer now. “I left because I didn’t want that life: the headlines, the noise, the cameras outside your door asking about who you're dating. I grew up in that world. I watched it eat people alive.”

He looked at her for a long time, jaw set but not angry.

“I’m not your father.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But it’s not about you, it's about that world you’re entering. And you deserve everything you’ve worked for, Lando. You really do. But I can’t go back to that. Not even for you.”

The silence settled like dust.

Then he nodded once, tightly, like if he moved too much he might shatter.

“So that’s it?”

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

He lingered in the doorway for a moment, like he didn’t believe it. Like she might call him back.

But she didn’t.

So he left.

Later that day, when the cottage was still and the sun was beginning to fall behind the palms, Y/N found it.

A note, folded in half on the windowsill, right next to the flower crown she thought she’d lost.

In his messy scrawl:

I would’ve stayed. But I know why you can’t. I’ll look for you in the crowd someday. —L.

She didn’t cry.

Not right away.

But when she closed the door, she pressed her back to it and exhaled like it hurt to breathe.

And in the quiet, she whispered to no one:

I would’ve stayed too. If only you weren’t the thing I left behind.

─── 🏁

It had been a week since he left.

Seven sunrises, seven quiet dinners, seven chances for her to say I miss you out loud and still, she hadn’t.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of her cottage, hair up in a messy twist, wearing a faded shirt that still smelled like salt and sunscreen. Her friends, real friends, the kind who showed up even when she pushed them away had arrived that morning, bounding down the path with wide grins, dragging sand into the doorway, their arms full of local snacks and cold bottled beer.

They talked and talked and talked about everything and nothing. Sprawled across her couch and floor cushions, they told stories from home, updated her on gossip, work, exes, the dog that escaped from her neighbor’s fence. One of them tried to play ukulele. It was awful. She laughed anyway.

But somewhere between the second round of drinks and a bad impression of her high school chemistry teacher, they noticed she hadn’t said much.

“You okay, hon?” one of them asked, nudging her knee.

Y/N blinked. Realized she hadn’t spoken in maybe twenty minutes. Just nodded. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” another asked, gentler this time. “Because you’ve just been… sitting there. Like your soul’s buffering.”

She tried to smile. It barely held.

They all exchanged looks.

And then: “So. We may or may not have something to confess.”

Y/N glanced up, wary. “What now?”

“The whole ‘we randomly decided to visit you’ thing?” her friend said, raising a brow. “Yeah. That was… sponsored.”

“Sponsored?”

“As in: your dad paid for the tickets. Even offered us his jet. He also sent us your favorite snacks.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. She looked away.

“But,” her other friend cut in quickly, “he didn’t ask us to drag you home. He just said he misses you. That’s all. Swore he wouldn’t push.”

Silence hung for a second. Then:

“He’s trying, Y/N,” one of them added softly. “In his own… control-freak executive way.”

She exhaled slowly. “I know.”

They gave her a beat to sit with that. Then, like clockwork:

“So,” one said, scooting closer, “are you gonna tell us about mystery crate guy or do we have to interrogate the villagers?”

Y/N let out a dry laugh. “You mean Lando?”

“Ohhh, Lando. It has a name.”

She reached for her drink, swirling the ice inside. Her voice came quieter now. “He’s from that world.”

They all went still.

“You mean—like…?”

She nodded. “Yeah… He’s just starting out. Bright-eyed. Hungry for it. It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of.”

“And you?”

“I’m the girl who ran away from it.” She looked down at her lap, tracing a wrinkle in the fabric of her skirt. “I didn’t tell him. Not until he found out.”

None of them said anything. They didn’t have to.

Y/N went on, voice soft and steady. “I think I could’ve loved him. If I let myself. Maybe I already did. But every time I looked at him, I saw everything I left behind. Everything I didn’t want to be pulled back into.”

A pause. The wind stirred the palm leaves outside.

“I didn’t stay for him,” she said, almost to herself. “And I didn’t go with him, either.”

“Do you regret it?”

She thought for a moment.

“I miss him,” she finally admitted. “But I don’t regret staying. Not yet.”

One of her friends leaned over and took her hand. Another reached for the half-played ukulele.

“Well, then,” they said gently, “let’s give you something worth staying for.”

And just like that, the night unfolded around them soft laughter, bad music, the scent of mangoes in the air and Y/N, for the first time in days, let herself breathe.

─── 🏁

The sun rose early the next morning, spilling gold across the floorboards of the cottage. Y/N stretched lazily on her bed, the air still heavy with the scent of fried garlic rice and sea breeze.

“You’re not moping here again,” her friend declared as she entered the room, tossing a sunhat onto Y/N’s stomach. “Come on. There’s a farmers’ market and half the town’s already there.”

Y/N groaned. “Do I have to be social?”

“No. You just have to show your face, smile once, and let the old ladies give you fruit.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We’ll drag you there. Don’t test us. You already owe us emotional labor and overpriced coffee.”

So Y/N found herself wandering the stalls a little before noon, slowly getting lost in the rhythm of it all. Music played on someone’s radio. A kid offered her a flower. Someone handed her fresh mango slices without asking.

She was just starting to feel like herself again when it happened.

A loud crash echoed near the docks; crates tumbling, someone swearing in British-accented panic, and a runaway dog barking like it was part of the circus.

She turned toward the chaos, eyebrows raised, and saw him.

A tall, lanky man with curls tousled by the wind and hands flailing as he tried to catch the dog now sprinting through the crowd with a pandesal in its mouth.

“Oh no no no no, please, I literally just got here!” he shouted, chasing after it.

The dog made a hard right. The man didn’t. He nearly collided with a crate of pineapples, lost his balance and stumbled straight into Y/N.

“Oof… sorry! So sorry!” he said, steadying them both. “Blimey. I swear I’m usually more coordinated than this.”

Y/N blinked. “You okay?”

He looked up, wide-eyed, and smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah. Just… my dog. Not technically mine. Long story.”

“Looks like a very long story,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“I’m George, by the way.” He extended a hand, breathless. “George Russell.”

She hesitated, then took it. “Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, grinning. “Lovely name. Do all the women here come with flowers behind their ears and save strangers from flying pineapples, or is it just you?”

She laughed, truly laughed for the first time in days. “Just me, I guess.”

“Lucky me, then.”

Behind them, the dog barked again this time from the roof of someone’s motorbike.

George sighed. “Right. I should probably go rescue the village from him. But… can I buy you a drink after?”

Y/N tilted her head, amused. “You travel with a dog, steal bread, and ask strangers out before noon?”

“I’m very efficient.”

She smirked. “Alright, George. You’ve got one drink to prove you’re not a walking disaster.”

“Challenge accepted,” he said with a wink, then sprinted off in pursuit of the dog.

And as Y/N watched him disappear into the crowd, she found herself smiling again not because she’d moved on.

But because maybe she didn’t have to stand still.

─── 🏁

Y/N squinted under the late afternoon sun, scanning the street for George. She thought they were just getting coffee, maybe a walk down the market road. So when she saw him waving from the end of the dock, standing beside a modest white sailboat with a cooler in hand and two coconuts already open, she stopped short.

“That,” she said, walking up to him with a raised brow, “is not coffee.”

George grinned, wide and unapologetic. “Surprise.”

She crossed her arms, amused. “I didn’t bring sunscreen. Or a change of clothes. Or a sense of adventure.”

“Well, lucky for you,” he said, handing her a coconut with a tiny paper umbrella in it, “I brought all three.”

She tried to glare at him. It didn’t work.

“This isn’t even your boat,” she challenged, glancing down at the polished deck.

“Technically, it’s my uncle’s,” George said, hopping aboard and offering his hand. “He lives here part-time, teaches diving courses when he’s not traveling. Left me the keys while he’s away. I figured… why not?”

Y/N took his hand, letting him help her aboard. “So what? You’re just a charming wanderer with access to boats and a suspicious amount of coconut water?”

“I’ll have you know,” he said, placing a small speaker beside the cooler, “I’m a journalist. And this place?” He gestured around them; the sun, sea, horizon stretching like a painting. “This is my new project. Thought I’d write about it. You know, something slower. Simpler. Something beautiful.”

He looked at her when he said that last word. Not accidentally.

She settled on a cushion and sipped her drink. “And how’s the writing going?”

“Well,” he said, sitting across from her, “I’ve only been here one day… and I’ve already met the most beautiful subject I could ask for.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled into her drink. “That was smooth.”

“I’ve had practice,” he said with a wink.

They drifted for a while, the motor quiet, only the sails flapping and the water lapping against the boat’s sides. Conversation came easily. He told her about London, about how journalism felt like chasing ghosts sometimes. She told him about how she hated always being asked about her last name.

He didn’t push. Just listened. And laughed. And made her feel light.

That night, as the sun dipped beneath the water and painted the world in oranges and pinks, they stayed on the boat, sharing local beer from the cooler, stargazing on the deck, pillows pulled from the cabin.

They didn’t kiss. Not at first. Not like before.

But at some point, she leaned her head on his shoulder. And he leaned in, resting his cheek against her hair. And it just made sense.

When his lips finally brushed hers, it wasn’t fireworks. It was gentle. Warm. Curious.

It felt like freedom, not fire.

─── 🏁

A few days later, they stood at the edge of the dock again but now he was holding his packed bags instead of coolers, and the sails were tied down.

“I’ve gotta go chase stories,” George said with a half-smile. “But I’ll be back.”

Y/N nodded, hands in her pockets. “I know.”

She didn’t cry. Didn’t ache. It was something else softer than heartbreak.

“Write me into your article,” she joked as he stepped onto the boat.

He grinned. “You’ll be the title.”

─── 🏁

Back at the cottage, one of her friends peeked over her sunglasses and said:

“Okay but… he’s definitely the love of your life.”

Y/N snorted. “He’s not.”

“He’s charming, tall, smart, has a boat—”

“I didn’t fall in love with him,” she said simply, “and that’s the best part.”

Her friend frowned. “You're sure?”

Y/N turned her face to the sun, letting the warmth sit on her skin.

“I think maybe,” she said quietly, “I’m still working on loving myself first.”

And for once, that felt like enough.

There was a beat of silence.

Then her other friend chimed in, casually sipping from her drink, “Okay, well… if he’s not the love of your life, he can totally be mine.”

All three of them burst into laughter, the kind that echoed through the trees and danced along the wind.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt light. Like maybe healing didn’t have to look like forgetting. Maybe it could just sound like laughter.

─── 🏁

The sun poured golden over the balcony, spilling onto the canvas like blessing. Y/N stood barefoot in front of it, brush in hand, streaking shades of coral and seafoam in soft arcs. Her cottage smelled like coconut wax, citrus peel, and turpentine.

She was twenty-one today.

No party. No candles. Just the sea humming softly in the background, a slice of mango cake on the table, and a half-drunk glass of pineapple wine.

And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t lonely.

She was home.

She stepped back from the canvas, tilting her head. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers. This place. This body. This life. All hers.

Then the nausea hit; sharp, sudden, insistent.

She barely made it to the sink before she emptied her stomach, breath heaving, eyes stinging.

At first, she thought it was the wine, or the heat, or maybe the mango. But deep down, her body knew. A primal, quiet knowing.

Hours later, crouched over a test in her bathroom, she read the result.

Positive.

She didn’t cry.

She just stared at the line, heart thudding slowly in her chest, one hand on the counter, the other pressed against her abdomen.

Not fear. Not even shock. Just… reality.

─── 🏁

The baby came just before sunrise.

The sky outside her window was still ink-blue, the stars clinging on like they weren’t ready to leave either. In the quiet before the world stirred, she held her child for the first time, skin to skin, breath to breath, and everything else the noise, the past, the ache dissolved into something simpler.

She cried, of course.

Not out of fear. Not from pain.

But because for the first time in her life, she knew what it meant to belong to herself.

Her parents came a few days later. Her mother brought flowers. Her father stood stiffly in the doorway until the baby yawned and he melted into something almost unrecognizable.

Toto didn’t ask questions. Didn’t lecture. Didn’t offer advice.

He simply said, “She’s beautiful.”

Y/N nodded. “Thank you.”

He asked if she wanted the world to know. If she wanted the press handled, the story cleaned up, the headlines ready.

She looked down at her daughter, asleep in her arms, and smiled.

“No,” she said. “I want her to grow up in peace. Just like this.”

So they stayed for a while. Held the baby. Cooked meals. Then they left again, quietly, as requested.

And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t a daughter of someone. Or a girl running from love. Or a name in the paddock. Or a mystery to be solved.

She was just Y/N. And she was a mother now.

─── 🏁

Y/N

I used to think freedom was escape. That if I ran far enough, fast enough, I could erase everything that hurt.

But the truth is, freedom is choosing your own ending. It’s waking up in a home you built yourself, even if no one else understands how you got there.

I don’t know if I’ll ever tell them; Oscar, George, Lando. Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day, she’ll ask. And I’ll tell her the story of a summer filled with stars and secrets and three beautiful, messy, unforgettable boys.

But right now, the only thing that matters is this:

I don’t regret anything.

Not the running. Not the falling. Not the leaving. Not the love.

Because every step led me here—

To her.

To me.

116 notes · View notes

mrs-delaney · 3 days ago

Text

Hide | Chapter Fourteen | Angels Like You

✨ Catch up on Hide before reading this chapter ✨

✧ the masterlist, babes ✧ 💌 so you can read all my stuff 🧃📚

💌 my inbox is open — come yell at me about the fic or just say hi

pairing: joe burrow x riley carter (oc) word count: 10.5k ish requested: no ⚠️ just a little warning: joe gets hurt in this one—not graphic, but it’s serious—and the emotional vibes are very much “something’s not right.” if that’s a tough headspace, skip or pause as needed.

📝 this story is only posted on wattpad and tumblr under miss_delaney. if you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. 🚫 do not repost, translate, or share my work without permission. 🌻 requests: closed! 💌 want to be added to the taglist? drop a comment or message me.

Author’s Note: posting two days in a row?? wild. who is she??

work’s been a little slow this week so i’ve been writing in between meetings (sorry to my boss..even though he sees me fuckin' around). this one’s a bit shorter, but it felt right to give it its own space.

this chapter's got that underlying hurt—you know, where nothing's actually exploded but everything still feels wrong somehow. not broken exactly, just... uneasy. like everyone's walking on eggshells but trying to pretend they're not. that's kind of where we are right now.

this part of the story is loosely based on real events. creative liberties were taken. timelines were bent.

thanks for being here. i really mean it. 💛

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez @destinyg237

August 26

Joe walks off the sideline still thinking about Riley's voice when she hung up on him days ago. The preseason game against the Commanders just ended—they won, 24-17—but he spent most of it watching from the bench, his mind three thousand miles away. He played one series in the first quarter, handed off twice, and that was it.

"Good game, Joe," someone calls out, maybe a coach, maybe a teammate. He nods without really seeing them, already pulling his phone from his locker.

Still no response to any of his texts. It feels like an eternity of silence.

Joe showers quickly, throws on sweats and a hoodie, and ignores the team bus idling outside the stadium. Instead, he calls Sarah.

"I need a jet," he says without preamble.

"Tonight? Joe, you just played—"

"Tonight. To LAX. How fast can you make it happen?"

There's a pause. Sarah's been his assistant for two years; she knows when not to ask questions. "Give me an hour. Where are you going from LAX?"

"I'll figure it out when I get there."

The drive to the private airfield outside Washington gives Joe time to think, which is both a blessing and a curse. He keeps replaying Riley's voice from that phone call—When push comes to shove, I'm the problem you need to manage—and realizing she wasn't wrong.

He tries calling her again as he waits for the jet to be prepped. Straight to voicemail, same as it's been for days.

"Riley, it's me again," he says after the beep. "I know you probably don't want to hear from me right now, but... just call me back. Please."

He hangs up and immediately wants to try again, but forces himself to put the phone away. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have by now.

The pilot doesn't ask questions about the last-minute flight or why Joe looks like shit.

He pulls out his phone and stares at his last text to Riley: Still hoping you'll be there Saturday.

She never responded. Which means she's probably not coming to Cincinnati. Which means this thing between them might actually be over, might have ended with that terrible phone call where he said all the wrong things and she hung up on him.

Joe opens a new message and starts typing: I'm coming to see you.

He deletes it. Tries again: We need to talk.

Deletes that too.

The truth is, he's terrified she'll tell him not to come. That she'll say she doesn't want to see him, that they're done, that he's too late. So instead of giving her the chance to reject him, he's just going to show up and hope she'll at least let him explain.

It's not his usual approach—Joe plans things, thinks them through, weighs the options. But planning hasn't been working when it comes to Riley. Every time he tries to be careful, to manage the situation, he makes it worse.

Maybe it's time to stop being careful.

The flight attendant offers him dinner, but Joe's stomach is too twisted to eat. He accepts water instead and uses the wifi to book a rental car, then immediately second-guesses the choice. Should he take an Uber? Less traceable, but also less reliable if Riley wants him to leave quickly.

God, he doesn't even know if she's home. For all he knows, she could be anywhere—New Orleans, Nashville, Colorado, literally anywhere. He hasn't heard from her team either, despite texting Pete directly yesterday.

Joe stares out the window at the dark expanse of America passing below and tries to figure out what he's going to say when he sees her. I'm sorryseems inadequate. I was scared sounds like an excuse. I love you feels true but not enough - not when love hasn't stopped him from hurting her.

His phone buzzes with a text from his dad: How'd the game go?

Joe types back: Fine. Flying to LA.

The response comes quickly: Good. Bring her home.

It's such a simple statement. Bring her home. Like she belongs there, like she belongs with him. Even though they haven't met her yet.

The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom: "We'll be beginning our descent into Los Angeles in about twenty minutes."

Joe's hands start to sweat. Twenty minutes until he finds out if the person he loves still wants anything to do with him.

He tries her number one more time. It rings once, twice, three times, then goes to voicemail.

"It's me," he says. "I... I'm sorry about everything. About the phone call, about not being there when you needed me, about being an idiot. I'm going to try to fix this, okay? If you'll let me."

He hangs up and immediately regrets it. He should have said more, should have explained, should have told her he was coming. But it's too late now.

The rental car is waiting. Joe plugs Riley's address into the GPS and drives.

The drive from LAX to Laurel Canyon takes forty minutes. Joe's locked in now, the way he gets before big games. One objective: get to Riley. Everything else is noise.

But what if she's not alone?

It's been days since they talked. Days for her to decide she's done with his shit, done with being treated like a secret, done with dating someone who chooses his image over her every time it matters. Someone like maybe Dom.

Joe pushes the thought away and focuses on driving, on the narrow roads and expensive houses hidden behind gates and perfectly manicured hedges. Riley's neighborhood is quiet, peaceful, the kind of place where showing up unannounced at midnight might get the cops called.

He turns onto her street. Her house sits at the end of a curved driveway, lights on in the living room. Her car's the only one there.

Joe parks on the street and sits in the rental car for a full minute, staring at her front door. This is it. This is where he finds out if he still has her or if he's lost the best thing that's ever happened to him.

He gets out of the car and walks to her door.

Once he reaches her front door he just stands there, hand raised to knock, suddenly terrified of what comes next.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on her living room floor, acoustic guitar balanced across her lap, surrounded by scattered pieces of paper covered in crossed-out lines and half-formed verses. It's past 1 AM, but sleep feels impossible when her chest is this tight with words that need to come out.

She strums the same chord progression she's been working on for the past hour, humming a melody that feels too raw to sing at full voice yet. The notebook beside her is open to a page that reads:

Baby, angels like you can't fly down hell with me I'm everything they said I would be

She stops playing and scratches out the second line, tries again:

I'm everything you didn't want me to be

That's not right either. Riley sets the guitar aside and pulls her knees to her chest, staring at the mess of papers around her. Days of not responding to Joe, days of writing songs that all sound like goodbye letters she'll never send.

Her phone sits face-down on the coffee table, silent since she finally set up the new one yesterday and saw all his unanswered messages flood in at once. She'd read them, all of them, but couldn't bring herself to respond. What was there to say? That she missed him? That she was tired of feeling like a problem he needed to solve?

Riley reaches for the guitar again, finds the melody, tries a different approach:

They say that misery loves company It's not your fault I ruin everything

The knock at her front door makes her freeze mid-strum.

She glances at the clock on her phone. 1:23 AM. Who the hell shows up at her house at 1:23 in the morning?

The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

Riley sets the guitar aside and pads to the front door in her bare feet, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her mid-thigh and shorts that disappear under the hem. She expects to see Pete through the peephole, or maybe Andy having another late-night crisis about some girl.

Instead, she sees Joe Burrow standing on her doorstep in sweats and a hoodie, looking like he just traveled three thousand miles to be there.

Which, apparently, he did.

Riley stares through the peephole for a full ten seconds, convinced she's hallucinating. Joe doesn't make grand gestures. Joe doesn't show up unannounced. Joe definitely doesn't fly across the country in the middle of the night.

But there he is.

She unlocks the door and opens it slowly, not trusting her voice yet.

"Hi," he says simply.

Riley blinks at him, still processing. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to make sure you get on a plane to Cincinnati."

Riley stares at him. "You... what?"

"Your flight. Tomorrow. I need to know you're still coming."

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Of all the things she might have expected Joe to say, this wasn't one of them. "You flew here to ask me that?"

"I flew here because I fucked up…again."

Riley stares at him for another long moment. "You got that right," she says finally.

She steps back from the door, and Joe takes it as an invitation to come inside. The living room is covered in evidence of sleepless nights: papers scattered across the coffee table and floor, her guitar propped against the couch, lyrics scrawled in her messy handwriting.

Riley closes the door behind him and crosses her arms, suddenly aware that she's barely dressed and he's standing in her living room in the middle of the night like this isn't completely insane.

"Shouldn't you be in Maryland?" she asks, trying to find her footing in this conversation.

"Game ended hours ago." Joe's looking at the papers around her guitar, probably reading the fragments of lyrics she's been working on. "You've been writing."

"I've been doing a lot of things." Riley moves to gather some of the papers, suddenly self-conscious about him seeing her raw thoughts scattered everywhere. "What do you want, Joe?"

"I want to know if you're coming to Cincinnati tomorrow."

Riley stops collecting papers and looks at him. "Why would I be coming to Cincinnati?"

"Your flight. You had a flight booked."

"Had being the key word." Riley sits down on the edge of her couch, putting some distance between them. "I canceled it."

Something shifts in Joe's expression. "When?"

"The other day. I'm exhausted with this, Joe."

"I know. That's why I'm here."

Riley looks at him for a long moment. "You think showing up fixes it?"

"I think not showing up definitely doesn't."

She's quiet, processing that. Joe stays where he is, not moving closer, not trying to crowd her space.

"My team lost their minds when they saw the headlines," he says finally. "Started talking about damage control and how this could affect my image. And I listened to them instead of calling you back first."

Riley doesn't respond right away.

"I panicked. When I saw those photos, when I heard what people were saying... I thought about protecting myself before I thought about protecting you."

Riley wraps her arms tighter around herself. "That's the problem, Joe. When things get hard, your first instinct is to pull away from me, not toward me."

"I know."

"Really? Do you Joe? Because this isn't the first time. Every time there's any kind of pressure or scrutiny, you treat me like I'm the complication."

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "You're not a complication."

"Then why do I always feel like one?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment. "Because I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to have you in my life and deal with everyone else's opinions about it. So when things get complicated, I default to what I know - protecting what I can control."

"At least you're honest about it. But Joe, I can't keep being the thing you sacrifice every time you get scared." Riley shifts on the couch, pulling her knees closer. "I know I'm not easy. I know my life is messy and unpredictable and nothing like what you're used to. But I can't keep wondering if you're going to choose me or choose everyone else's opinion of me."

"I'm trying to figure out how to do that. Choose you."

Joe moves closer, crouching down in front of the couch so he can see her face. "Don't give up on this. On us."

Riley looks at him, eyes tired. "This hurts, Joe."

"I know. I don't want to hurt you. Stay with me while I figure it out?"

She studies his face like she's looking for something she's not sure is there. "You keep asking me to wait while you figure it out. But what if you don't? What if this is just who we are?"

"I don't want it to be."

"Wanting isn't the same as changing." She's quiet for a moment. "But yeah. Okay. I'll stay."

"Even though you shouldn't."

"Probably because I shouldn't."

Joe takes what feels like the first deep breath he's had in days.

He reaches for her hand, and she lets him take it. Her fingers are cold, and he realizes she's been sitting here for hours writing, probably not taking care of herself the way she does when she's processing something hard.

"Come here," he says quietly, and gently pulls her up from the couch.

Riley stands on unsteady legs, and Joe wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. She melts into him immediately, her face pressed against his hoodie, and he can feel some of the tension leave her body.

They stand like that for a long moment, just holding each other. Joe rests his chin on top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, feeling the relief wash over him that she's here, that she's his, that she said okay.

Riley's arms tighten around his waist, and Joe realizes she's crying - not sobs, just quiet tears that soak through his hoodie.

"I missed you," she whispers against his chest.

"I missed you too," he says, his voice rough. "So much."

* * *

They stay like that, wrapped around each other in her living room surrounded by scattered lyrics and the evidence of her sleepless nights. It's relief and comfort and the simple fact that they fit together, even when everything else feels broken.

Riley pulls back just enough to look at his face, her hands coming up to rest against his chest. "You hate grand gestures."

"I had to. I was going crazy."

She studies his expression, searching for something. When she finds it, Joe leans down and kisses her.

It's soft at first, tentative, like he's not sure if this is allowed. But Riley's hands fist in his hoodie, and she kisses him back with weeks of missing him, and Joe makes a small sound against her mouth that goes straight through her.

"Bird," he breathes against her lips.

"I know," she whispers. "I know."

She takes his hand and leads him down the hall to her bedroom, and this time it's different from every other time they've been together. Slower, more careful. Like they're both afraid the other might disappear.

Joe pulls off his hoodie while Riley sits on the edge of her bed, just watching him. When he reaches for the hem of her oversized t-shirt, she lets him pull it over her head, and then they're skin to skin for the first time in too long.

"I thought I fucked this up forever," Joe says quietly, his forehead resting against hers.

"You didn't," Riley says, even though they both know how close he came.

When he touches her, it's with reverence, like he's memorizing every inch. When she moves against him, it's with a kind of desperate tenderness, like she's trying to pour all her forgiveness into the space between their bodies.

It's not gentle, not really. They cling to each other, pace quick and rough, both of them chasing relief and something like grace. Neither of them talks. Just the sound of skin and breath, desperate and seeking, like they're trying to say I'm sorry, I love you, don't leave again—all without words.

"Joe," Riley breathes against his mouth, her hands fisted in his hair.

"Me too," he says back, his voice rough.

She pulls him closer, desperate. "Don't—" she starts, then stops, but Joe knows what she means.

"I won't," he promises against her throat. "I'm not stopping. I'm not going anywhere."

When she's close, she whispers his name like a prayer, over and over, and Joe has to bite down on her shoulder to keep from falling apart completely.

"Please," she whispers, and he knows what she needs.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs back.

When Riley comes, it’s quiet, her body shaking with it, face pressed to his shoulder. Joe follows right after, everything tightening at once, her name muffled against her skin.

After, they don’t move. He just holds her, breathing her in, as if he could anchor himself to this moment and never let go.

"Come back with me," Joe says eventually.

"Joe."

"Please, Riley."

"You know I will." She sighs. "When do you want to leave?"

"In the morning? When we wake up?"

"Okay."

She settles back against his chest, and Joe feels something ease in his chest that's been tight for days. It's not fixed - he knows that. The conversation they had in the living room doesn't solve the fundamental problem between them. But she's here, and she's his, and tomorrow they'll figure out the rest.

* * *

Early September

Riley stares out the airplane window at the darkness below, her reflection ghostlike in the glass. The red-eye from Cincinnati to London is half empty, which means she has an entire row to herself to spread out and pretend she's not exhausted down to her bones.

Thirty-six hours. She could have stayed in London, slept off the jet lag, maybe seen a show in the West End. But no—she flew to Cincinnati instead, burning through her only real break because she thought things might be different after LA. Thirty-six hours of watching Joe slip right back into the same patterns that broke them apart in the first place.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Pete: Safe flight. Get some sleep. Love you.

She types back: Can't sleep. Too wired.

What she doesn't text is that nothing has changed. That Joe flying to LA, showing up at her door, asking her to stay with him—none of it actually fixed the thing that's wrong between them.

Yesterday afternoon, Joe's living room:

"The Steelers run a lot of zone coverage on third down," Joe muttered to himself, remote in hand, rewinding the same play for the fourth time.

Riley looked up from her book—she'd given up trying to have a conversation twenty minutes earlier. "Joe."

"Mmm?" He didn't look away from the screen.

"Remember when you said you were trying to figure out how to choose me?"

That got his attention. He paused the film and turned to her. "I am trying."

"Yeah? Because this feels exactly like it did before."

Joe's jaw tightened slightly. "It's Week 1, Riley. This is important."

"And I'm not?"

"That's not what I said."

But Riley could see it in his face—the same look he got whenever football took priority. The same wall going up.

Riley shifts in her seat now, curling sideways against the window. The flight attendant offers her a blanket, which she accepts with a tired smile.

Her phone lights up with a message from Joe: Miss you already.

She stares at the text for a long moment before responding: Miss you too.

But the truth is she doesn't just miss him—she misses who he used to be with her. The Joe who would actually turn off his phone. Who cared about her day, not just the parts that fit around football. This version feels like someone else entirely.

This morning, Joe's kitchen:

"I can drive you to the airport," Joe offered, grabbing his keys.

"It's fine. I called a car."

"You sure? I don't have meetings until noon."

Riley could see he was already mentally somewhere else—probably thinking about practice, about the game plan, about everything except the fact that she was leaving again. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He kissed her goodbye at the door, distracted and quick. "Text me when you land?"

"I will."

But they both knew he probably wouldn't see it until hours later, buried between messages from coaches and teammates and everyone else who took precedence during football season.

Riley closes her eyes and tries to find a comfortable position. Seven more hours until London, then a full day of interviews where she'll have to smile and talk about her music while running on no sleep and too much caffeine.

Her phone buzzes again. A text from Andy: How was Cincinnati?

She types and deletes three different responses before settling on: Fine.

It's not fine, though. Nothing about this feels fine. Joe said he was trying to figure out how to choose her, but the moment football season started, everything went right back to how it was before.

She's still the only one reaching. Loving him is starting to feel like chasing him.

Riley looks at her phone again. Joe's "miss you already" text, her automatic "Miss you too" response. A week ago, that exchange would have made her heart race. Now it just feels hollow.

When did she become the only one reaching? When did loving him start feeling like chasing him?

Seven hours to London. Seven hours to figure out how to smile and talk about her music while pretending everything's fine.

For the first time since that night in her living room when Joe asked her to stay with him, Riley wonders if she should have said no.

* * *

September-1st Game of the Season

Riley - 2:47 PM London time (9:47 AM Cincinnati): Good luck today baby. I know you're going to be amazing.

Riley - 3:15 PM: Thinking about you. Wish I could be there.

Riley - 4:30 PM: Still no response? Everything okay?

Riley - 5:45 PM: Joe?

Riley stares at her phone screen in her London hotel room, watching the delivered messages pile up with no response. She's been up since 6 AM doing BBC Radio interviews, but all she can think about is Joe's first game of the season starting in an hour.

Riley - 6:00 PM (1:00 PM Cincinnati - Kickoff): Game's starting. I'm watching on my laptop. You've got this.

She settles into bed with her laptop balanced on her knees, the NFL app streaming the Bengals vs. Steelers game. The hotel room is dark except for the glow of the screen, and Riley pulls a blanket around herself as she watches Joe take the field.

Riley - 6:23 PM: You look so focused out there. Doing amazing.

Riley - 6:45 PM: I have no idea what's happening but you look good doing it.

Riley - 7:30 PM (Halftime): They're winning but you've got this. Second half.

The Bengals are struggling. Pittsburgh's defense is relentless, and Joe's getting pressured on every play. Riley finds herself holding her breath every time he drops back to pass, texting encouragement she knows he won't see until after the game.

Riley - 8:15 PM: That hit looked bad. Are you okay?

Riley - 8:47 PM: Come on baby. One touchdown. You can do this.

Riley - 9:20 PM (Game ends, Bengals lose 21-10): I'm sorry. You played your heart out. You'll get them next time.

Riley - 9:45 PM: Joe? Just want to make sure you're okay.

Riley - 11:30 PM: I know you're probably in meetings or with the team. Call me when you can?

Riley - 1:15 AM: Are you ignoring me?

It's nearly 2 AM London time when Riley's phone finally buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call. She answers immediately, and Joe's face appears on screen—hair still damp from the shower, jaw tight with frustration.

"Hey," she says softly. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. We lost." His voice is flat, exhausted.

"I watched the whole game. You looked good out there, even though they kept hitting you—"

"Riley, I don't want to talk about the game."

She blinks, taken aback by his tone. "Okay. I was just... I was trying to be supportive. I sent you texts all day."

"I don't check my phone on game days."

"What?"

Joe rubs his face with his hands. "I don't talk to anyone the day before or day of games. I go dark."

Riley stares at him through the screen. "You never told me that."

"I thought you knew."

"How would I know that? You've never mentioned it once." Her voice gets sharper. "I stayed up all night watching your game, Joe. I've been worried sick because you weren't responding to anything."

"I can't be thinking about texts when I'm trying to prepare."

"I wasn't asking you to respond during the game. But before? After? Some acknowledgment that your girlfriend exists?"

Joe's expression hardens. "This is exactly why I don't talk to people on game days. I can't deal with this right now."

"Deal with what? Me caring about you?"

"I lost, Riley. I threw two interceptions. The last thing I need is—"

"Is what? Support? Someone who care about you trying to be there for you?"

"I need space to process this."

Riley feels something cold settle in her chest. "Space from me."

"Space from everyone."

"But especially me."

Joe doesn't deny it, and that silence says everything.

"I can't do this," Riley says quietly. "I can't keep being shut out of the most important part of your life."

"Football has to come first during the season. You know that."

"I know that football is important. What I didn't know is that means I don't exist."

Joe's jaw tightens. "That's not fair."

"Are you kidding me? When do I come first, Joe? When do I get to matter?"

"Riley—"

But she's already ended the call.

Riley sits in her dark hotel room, staring at the black screen of her phone. It's 2:30 AM in London, and she has morning interviews in six hours. But all she can think about is the look on Joe's face when she asked when she gets to matter.

Like it was a question he'd never considered before.

Riley's phone buzzes less than five minutes after she ended the call. Joe's name appears on the screen.

She stares at it for two rings before answering.

"What?"

"Don't hang up." Joe's voice is quieter now, less sharp. "Please."

Riley doesn't say anything, but she doesn't hang up either.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have taken the loss out on you."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"And I should have told you about game days. I assumed you knew, but you didn't. That's on me."

Riley shifts against her hotel pillows, exhausted. "Joe, I stayed up all night to watch you play. I was trying to support you."

"I know. And I appreciate that, I do. I just... I don't think clearly after losses."

"It's not just about tonight. It's about me not knowing basic things about your life. About feeling like I'm always on the outside of the most important part of who you are."

Joe is quiet for a moment. "I'll try to be more upfront about what game day stuff looks like for me. What the season looks like. I don't want you feeling shut out."

"Okay."

"Are we okay?"

Riley closes her eyes. She's too tired to fight, too tired to explain again why this hurt. "Yeah. We're okay."

"Get some sleep. I know you have early interviews."

"Yeah. I do."

"Riley?"

"What?"

"Thank you. For watching. For caring. I know I didn't say that before."

"You're welcome."

After they hang up, Riley lies in the dark staring at the ceiling. Joe apologized, promised to be more communicative about his boundaries. It should feel like progress.

Instead, it just feels like another conversation where she has to adjust her expectations to fit his world.

Riley sets an alarm and tries to fall asleep.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on the floor of the rehearsal studio, still catching her breath from running through "Lonely Is the Muse" for the tenth time today. The mock stage setup towers behind her—lights, risers, even a replica of the LED backdrop that will follow them around the world. Her phone is propped against her water bottle as she FaceTimes Joe, who's presumably at home in Cincinnati.

"You should see this setup," she says, angling the phone so he can see the stage. "It's insane. Andy designed this whole lighting sequence that syncs with the guitar solo in 'Lilith,' and Pete's been working on these harmonies that—"

"That's cool," Joe says, but his attention seems split. Riley can see him looking at something off-camera.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Just checking something real quick." He looks back at the phone. "Sorry. The stage looks good."

Riley tries not to let her irritation show. "We've been rehearsing for twelve hours a day. I'm exhausted but also kind of terrified and excited all at the same time. Tour starts in three weeks."

"You'll be great. You always are."

"I hope so." Riley shifts, tucking her legs under her. "Actually, I was thinking—you have your bye week coming up, right? End of October?"

"Yeah."

"You should come here. See the rehearsals, hang out while we're in prep mode. I could show you around the studio complex, introduce you to everyone properly." Riley's voice gets more animated as she talks. "You could watch us work through the setlist, see what this whole thing looks like from the inside."

Joe is quiet for a moment. "I don't know, Riley."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean, bye weeks are usually when I catch up on rest. Recovery. I don't really go anywhere during the season."

Riley frowns. "But it's your week off. And I'm asking you to come see something that's really important to me."

"I know it's important—"

"I don't think you do. Because it feels like you think my work is just a fun little hobby compared to yours."

"That's not true."

"Then why won't you come?"

Joe runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You get on a plane, you come to LA, you spend time with your girlfriend. What's complicated about that?"

"Riley, we're still laying low, remember? After the whole Ethan thing? My team thinks it's better if I'm not seen—"

"Your team thinks it's better if you're not seen with me."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant." Riley's voice gets sharper. "Joe, that was two months ago. How long are we supposed to hide because my drunk ex made a scene?"

"It's not hiding, it's being smart. The season just started, and things are going well, and I don't want to create any distractions—"

"I'm a distraction."

"No, the media attention is a distraction."

"Same thing." Riley stands up, pacing the small area in front of her phone. "God, we're right back where we started, aren't we?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're still more worried about how things look than about being with me. Nothing's actually changed."

Joe's jaw tightens. "Come on, Riley. I've been trying to be better about communication—"

"Communication isn't the only problem, Joe. The problem is that you don't want to be seen with me. The problem is that I've flown to Cincinnati three times in the past month, but you won't come here once because you're worried about your precious image."

"Riley—"

"When's the last time you came to my world? When's the last time you made an effort to see what my life looks like instead of me always fitting into yours?"

"I came to your show in LA—"

"You came to my show in July with your friends, and that's it." Riley's voice cracks slightly. "I'm about to go on tour, Joe. This is the last chance we have to spend time together before I'm gone for months, and you're worried about people taking pictures of us."

Joe is quiet, and Riley can see him processing what she's saying. Finally, he speaks. "I just think it's better to be careful right now."

Riley stops pacing. "Better for who?"

"For both of us."

"No, Joe. Better for you. This is better for you." She picks up her phone, bringing it closer to her face. "I'm tired of being your secret. I'm tired of being the thing you have to manage and protect and hide from the world."

"You're not—"

"I am, though. That's exactly what I am." Riley's voice gets quieter, more defeated. "You know what? Forget I asked. Enjoy your bye week. Rest up, recover, do whatever you need to do."

"Riley, don't hang up. Let's talk about this."

"What's there to talk about? You made your choice. You always make the same choice."

"That's not true."

Riley looks at him through the screen, this man she's been trying to love despite how hard he makes it. "Name one time you've chosen me over what's safe for your career. One time."

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it. The silence stretches between them.

"That's what I thought," Riley says quietly.

"Riley—"

But she's already ended the call.

Riley sits in the empty rehearsal studio, surrounded by the elaborate stage setup that represents months of planning and preparation for the biggest tour of her career. In three weeks, she'll be performing these songs for thousands of people who love her music, who've been waiting for this moment almost as much as she has.

And the person she wants to share it with most is too worried about his image to show up.

She picks up her guitar and starts playing the opening chords to "Lonely Is the Muse," letting the music fill the silence Joe left behind.

* * *

Late October

Riley sits on Joe's couch, watching him ice his shin for the third time since she arrived two hours ago. He's been rotating between the couch and the kitchen, restless and irritated, moving the ice pack every few minutes like he can't get comfortable.

"How long has it been bothering you?" she asks, setting down her coffee.

"Couple weeks." Joe adjusts the ice pack, wincing slightly. "It's fine. Just annoying."

"Have you had it looked at?"

"Yeah. They said it's minor. Just needs rest."

Riley watches him fidget with the ice pack, his jaw tight with frustration. She flew in this morning from LA, using her one day off between rehearsal blocks to see him, and he's been like this since she walked in the door—distracted, moody, barely acknowledging that she's here.

"You've seemed off," she says carefully. She's been watching his games when she can, trying to understand his world better after their last fight.

Joe's head snaps up. "What?"

"In the games I've watched. You just look... frustrated. More than usual."

"Since when do you analyze my games?"

"Since I'm trying to understand what's going on with you." Riley shifts on the couch to face him. "You look different out there."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're limping around your house icing your leg every twenty minutes."

Joe stands up abruptly, the ice pack falling to the floor. "It's just a minor thing. Shin splints or something. It'll heal."

"Joe—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Riley stares at him as he paces to the kitchen, his movements stilted and careful. She's seen him frustrated before, but this feels different. Angrier. Like he's mad at his own body for betraying him.

"I'm trying to help," she says when he comes back with a different ice pack.

"I don't need help. I need this thing to stop hurting so I can play."

"Maybe you need to take some time—"

"I can't take time. We're 4-3, Riley. Every game matters."

"Your health matters too."

Joe laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My health matters when we're winning. Right now, I need to play through whatever this is."

Riley watches him settle back on the couch, immediately shifting to find a comfortable position for his leg. "Is this why you've been so..."

"So what?"

"Distant. Moody. Harder to reach than usual."

"I haven't been moody."

"Joe, I texted you good morning three days ago and you responded with 'ok.'"

"I was busy."

"With what? Icing your shin?"

Joe's expression darkens. "Don't."

"Don't what? Point out that you're taking your frustration out on me?"

"I'm not taking anything out on you."

"Then why does it feel like you resent me being here?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment, staring at the ice pack on his shin. "I don't resent you being here."

"You haven't asked me about tour prep once since I got here. You haven't asked about my day, about the flight, about anything. I might as well be invisible."

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"I know. Your shin, the games, the pressure. I get it. But I'm here, Joe. I'm trying to be supportive, and you're acting like I'm bothering you."

Joe looks at her then, and for a moment his expression softens. "You're not bothering me."

"Then what's going on? Because this feels like more than just a sore leg."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, a gesture Riley recognizes as him trying to find words he doesn't want to say. "Everything's off right now. My timing, my accuracy, my decision-making. And this stupid shin thing is making it worse because I can't plant my foot right."

"So fix it. See a specialist, get treatment, whatever you need to do."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because if they think it's serious, they'll want me to sit. And I can't sit. Not with how we're playing."

Riley stares at him. "You'd rather play hurt than take care of yourself?"

"I'd rather not let my team down."

"What about letting yourself down? What about letting me down by shutting me out every time something goes wrong?"

Joe's jaw tightens again. "That's not what I'm doing."

"But that's what it feels like. From where I'm sitting, it feels exactly like what you're doing."

They sit in silence for a moment, the tension thick between them. Riley watches Joe adjust the ice pack again, his movements careful and frustrated.

"Maybe I should just give you some space," she says finally.

"You don't have to do that."

"Yeah, I do. You clearly don't want company right now."

"Riley—"

But she's already standing, heading toward the stairs. "I'm going to go read or something. Let me know if you need anything."

Joe doesn't argue, doesn't get up from the couch, doesn't try to stop her.

Riley goes upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door behind her. She sits on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone, wondering why she keeps coming back to someone who makes her feel more alone when she's with him than when she's actually alone.

Twenty minutes later, she hears footsteps on the stairs. Joe opens the bedroom door quietly, like he's not sure if she wants to see him.

"Hey," he says from the doorway.

Riley looks up from her phone. "Hey."

"Can I come in?"

She nods, and Joe walks over to the bed, sitting down beside her with a slight wince as he adjusts his leg.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I've been an ass."

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "This thing with my shin, it's got me all fucked up. I can't plant my foot right, and it's throwing off everything. My throws, my reads, my timing. Everything feels off."

Riley turns to face him. "So why take it out on me?"

"I don't know. Because you're here, I guess. Because it's easier than dealing with the fact that I might be losing a step."

"You're not losing a step. You're hurt."

"Same thing in this business."

Riley studies his face, seeing the frustration and fear he's been hiding behind his moodiness. "Joe, you can talk to me about this stuff. I want you to talk to me about it."

"I know. I just... I don't like feeling weak."

"Being hurt isn't weak. Being an asshole to the people who care about you is."

Joe looks at her, and for the first time all day, he really sees her. "You flew here to see me."

"I did."

"And I've been treating you like shit since you walked in."

"Pretty much."

Joe reaches for her hand. "I'm sorry, Riley. Really. I don't want you to feel like you're not welcome here."

Riley squeezes his hand. "I just want to help. I want to be here for you when things are hard."

"You are. Even when I'm too stupid to appreciate it."

They sit in silence for a moment before Joe lies back on the bed, pulling Riley down with him. She curls up against his side, careful of his injured leg.

"I'm sorry I made you feel like you didn't matter."

Riley lifts her head to look at him. "Do I matter?"

"You matter the most Birdie."

* * *

November

The pocket collapses faster than Joe expects.

He's got Ja'Marr running a comeback route, sees the window opening, but Baltimore's pass rush is relentless tonight. Roquan Smith is coming hard from the left side, and Joe feels the familiar pressure that means he's got maybe half a second to get rid of the ball.

He steps up in the pocket, trying to buy time, but the protection breaks down completely. Bodies everywhere, purple jerseys converging. Joe scrambles right, looking for an escape route, the ball still tucked against his chest.

The hit comes from behind and to the side—a combination of defensive linemen collapsing the pocket. Joe goes down hard, his right hand hitting the turf first as he tries to brace his fall. The impact sends a shock wave up his arm, but it's not until he tries to push himself up that he feels it.

Sharp, electric pain shooting from his wrist straight up to his elbow.

Joe rolls over, sitting up on the field, and looks down at his right hand. It looks normal, but when he tries to flex his wrist, the pain is immediate and breathtaking. Not the dull ache of his shin, which has been manageable for weeks. This is different. This is wrong.

"You good, Joe?" Ja'Marr is standing over him, helmet off, concern written across his face.

Joe nods automatically, the way he always does, but when he tries to push himself to his feet using his right hand, the pain nearly makes him sick. He gets up using his left hand instead, cradling his right arm against his body.

The Ravens defense is celebrating—they got the sack, stopped the drive. The crowd at M&T Bank Stadium is deafening. Joe walks slowly toward the huddle, trying to shake off whatever's wrong with his wrist, but every step sends jarring pain up his arm.

"Let's go, offense!" he calls out, trying to sound normal, but his voice feels tight.

In the huddle, Joe holds the play sheet with his left hand. When he claps to break the huddle, he uses his left hand against his thigh instead of clapping normally. His teammates don't notice, but Joe notices everything. The way his right hand feels weak and unstable. The way gripping the football sends shooting pain through his wrist.

The next snap comes fast. Joe takes the ball, tries to set up for a quick slant to Tyler Boyd, but when he goes to release the ball, his wrist can't support the throwing motion. The ball wobbles out of his hand, falling incomplete five yards short of the target.

Joe stares down at his right hand, flexing his fingers. They move, but his wrist feels like it's full of broken glass.

"Joe!" Coach Taylor is calling for a timeout, jogging onto the field. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Joe says, but he's not good. He knows he's not good. He's played through pain before—the shin, countless bumps and bruises, the appendectomy his rookie year. This is different.

Dr. Sparks, the team physician, approaches with the medical staff. "What's going on?"

"Wrist," Joe says simply, holding up his right hand. "Landed on it weird."

Dr. Sparks takes Joe's hand, gently rotating the wrist. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that Joe has to bite back a curse.

"Can you grip?" Dr. Sparks asks, handing Joe a football.

Joe takes it with his right hand, tries to squeeze. His grip strength is maybe thirty percent of normal, and even that causes significant pain. When he tries to cock his arm back in a throwing motion, the pain is so intense his vision blurs for a second.

"I can't throw," Joe admits, the words feeling like giving up.

Coach Taylor's face falls. "Can you hand it off? Run some read-option?"

Joe tries to grip the ball again, tries to simulate a handoff motion. Even that simple movement sends pain shooting up his arm. "I don't think so."

The stadium noise fades into background static as Dr. Sparks examines Joe's wrist more thoroughly on the sideline. Teammates pat his shoulders as they pass, offering encouragement, but Joe barely hears them. All he can think about is the calendar in his head—nine games left in the season, playoffs within reach, everything they've worked for since August.

"We need to get this X-rayed," Dr. Sparks says quietly. "Tonight."

Joe looks out at the field, where Jake Browning is warming up, preparing to take over. The scoreboard shows 10-7 Ravens, second quarter, plenty of time to come back. Except Joe won't be the one leading the comeback.

"How bad?" Joe asks.

Dr. Sparks doesn't answer immediately, which tells Joe everything he needs to know.

As Joe walks toward the tunnel, his right arm held carefully against his body, he thinks about Riley. She's in New York doing press appearances, probably at some late night show, completely unaware that his season might have just ended on a routine play against a Baltimore pass rush that got home half a second too fast.

The crowd noise follows him into the tunnel—cheers for Baltimore, sympathy from the few Bengals fans who made the trip. Joe doesn't look back at the field. If this is as bad as it feels, he's already seen enough football for 2023.

In the locker room, alone except for medical staff, Joe sits on the training table and stares at his right hand. The hand that's supposed to hold footballs, sign autographs, win championships. The hand that's supposed to touch Riley's face when he tells her he loves her, whenever he finally works up the courage to say it.

Right now, it can barely hold a cup of water.

Dr. Sparks returns with preliminary results that confirm what Joe already knows: his season is over. The scapholunate ligament in his wrist is torn, requiring surgery and months of rehabilitation.

Joe nods when he hears the diagnosis, like he expected it. Because deep down, from the moment he hit the ground, he knew. You don't play quarterback in the NFL for five years without learning to distinguish between pain you can play through and pain that means something is fundamentally broken.

As the medical staff discusses surgery timelines and recovery protocols, Joe's phone buzzes with texts he can't respond to yet. Teammates, family, reporters. The outside world learning what happened.

But the person he most wants to talk to is in New York, probably charming some talk show host or doing interviews, completely unaware that everything just changed.

Joe closes his eyes and tries not to think about how long it's going to be before he can throw a football again. Tries not to think about Riley, and how she's going to drop everything to be here for him, just like she always does.

Tries not to think about how he doesn't deserve that kind of loyalty, but how desperately he needs it anyway.

* * *

Riley sits in the green room at The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, watching Thursday Night Football on her phone while Stephen's monologue plays on the monitor overhead. Pete, Andy, and Daniel are sprawled across the couches around her—they're all appearing together tonight, doing "Daylight" as a full band performance.

"Twenty minutes until we're on," Andy says, tuning his guitar. "You nervous?"

"Nah, this is easy compared to tour prep," Riley replies, though she's actually looking forward to it. Playing with the guys always feels more natural than solo appearances.

Daniel's practicing paradiddles on his thighs while Pete scrolls through his phone. Riley keeps her phone tilted toward herself, watching the Ravens at Bengals game. Joe mentioned this game in his last text—division rival, important for playoff positioning.

She sees him drop back to pass, the pocket collapsing, bodies in purple jerseys converging.

Then she sees him go down.

At first, it looks like any other sack. Joe gets hit, stays down for a moment, then starts to get up. But something about the way he's moving catches Riley's attention. He's cradling his right arm against his body, his throwing hand held carefully away from his body.

"Oh no," Riley whispers, sitting up straighter.

"What?" Pete looks over at her.

Riley doesn't answer, too focused on her phone screen. The next play makes it obvious. Joe takes the snap, tries to throw, and the ball comes out weak and wobbly, falling short of the receiver. Even Riley, who knows nothing about football technique, can see that throw was wrong.

"Shit," she breathes, turning her phone so the guys can see. "Something's wrong with Joe."

All three of them crowd around her phone now, watching as Joe walks toward the sideline, medical staff surrounding him. The camera zooms in on his face, and even through his helmet, Riley can see the frustration and pain written there.

"That's not good," Daniel says quietly.

"That looks really bad," Andy adds.

Riley's phone starts buzzing with notifications, but she keeps watching. Joe's on the sideline now, clearly not going back in. Jake Browning is warming up on the field.

A production assistant appears in the doorway. "Five minutes to places, everyone."

Riley looks up, torn between professional obligation and personal crisis. "I need to—"

"You need to perform," Pete says gently. "You can't do anything right now anyway. Do the song, then figure out what's next."

Riley nods, knowing he's right but hating it. She puts her phone in her jacket pocket, but her hands are shaking slightly.

"Hey," Andy says, catching her arm. "He's going to be okay."

"You don't know that."

"No, but I know you. And I know you'll go crazy if you don't at least try to get through this performance first."

Riley takes a deep breath, trying to center herself. "If I get through this song and fly out tonight, can you guys handle the interview? And tomorrow's press?"

"Of course," Daniel says immediately.

"Whatever you need," Pete adds.

Riley nods, grateful for the millionth time that these three have her back no matter what.

"Alright, let's go play a song."

The performance is muscle memory. Riley's done "Daylight" hundreds of times now, and playing with Pete, Andy, and Daniel feels natural even when her mind is three hundred miles away in Baltimore. She smiles when she's supposed to, and to anyone watching, she probably looks like an artist having fun promoting her upcoming tour.

But the entire time, all she can think about is Joe walking off that field, holding his wrist like something inside it was broken.

The moment they finish the song and the cameras cut to commercial, Riley is already moving.

"That was great, guys," Stephen says, shaking hands with the band. "We'll do a quick interview segment when we come back."

"Actually," Pete jumps in smoothly, "Riley has to step out for a family emergency, but we'd love to chat with you about the tour."

Riley shoots him a grateful look as she heads toward the exit. Her phone is already in her hand, pulling up flight apps as she walks.

"Riley!" Andy calls after her. "Text us when you know something."

She nods without looking back, already focused on getting to Cincinnati as fast as possible.

In the hallway outside the studio, Riley calls Scout while simultaneously booking the next available flight.

"Riley? How was Colbert?"

"Joe's hurt. I need to get to Cincinnati tonight. Can you handle the Morning Show appearance tomorrow, the guys are gonna do it alone. Can you make sure they are prepped?"

"Of course. How hurt?"

Riley pauses, watching the replay of Joe's injury that's now cycling on sports news. "Bad, I think. Really bad."

"Go. I'll handle everything here."

An hour later, Riley is in an Uber Black to JFK, still in her black leather jacket from the show. Her phone buzzes constantly with updates from ESPN, texts from friends who saw the news, missed calls from people wanting to know if she's okay.

But the only call that matters—from Joe himself—never comes.

Riley stares out the window at the New York City lights rushing past and tries not to think about what it means that he hasn't reached out. Tries not to think about how she's dropping everything, again, for someone who might not even want her there.

But she knows she doesn't really have a choice. When someone you love is hurt, you go. Even if the relationship is complicated, even if you've been fighting, even if you're not sure where you stand.

You go anyway.

* * *

Riley manages to get on the last flight to Cincinnati, a red-eye that doesn't leave until 11:47 PM. She sits in her window seat, finally allowing herself to process what just happened. Four hours ago she was getting ready to perform on national television. Now she's flying to Cincinnati because the man she loves got hurt and she couldn't stay away.

Once the plane reaches cruising altitude, Riley pulls out her phone and opens her text thread with Joe. Their last exchange was three days ago—him saying good luck with Colbert, her thanking him.

She starts typing.

I'm on a plane to Cincinnati. Landing at 3:20 AM. No use arguing about it, I'm already in the air. I'll call a car from the airport, don't worry about anything.

She hits send before she can second-guess herself.

The response comes faster than she expected.

Riley you didn't have to do that

I know. But I did.

I'm having someone pick you up. Don't argue.

Riley stares at his text, feeling something loosen in her chest. He's not telling her not to come. He's not angry that she dropped everything. He's making sure she gets to him safely.

Okay.

Thank you for coming.

Riley closes her eyes and leans back against the headrest. Outside the window, the lights of the East Coast pass by below. In a few hours, she'll be in Cincinnati, and whatever happens next, at least she'll be there.

Always, she types back. I'll always come.

* * *

Joe sits in the back of a team car leaving Baltimore, his right wrist wrapped and elevated against his chest. It's past midnight, and the highway stretches ahead—about six hours back to Cincinnati so he can see the team doctors first thing in the morning. His wrist throbs with every bump in the road despite the pain medication.

Riley's coming. She's on a plane right now, flying here because he got hurt, even though they've barely been talking and he's been a complete ass to her for weeks.

He calls his parents in Athens.

"Joey?" Robin Burrow answers on the second ring, her voice tight with worry. "We saw what happened. How bad is it?"

"Bad, Mom. Season-ending. I'm flying back to Cincinnati now to see the team doctors tomorrow."

"Oh, honey. We're so sorry."

"Listen, I need a favor, and it's kind of a big one."

"Anything."

Joe takes a breath. "Riley's flying in from New York. Her plane lands at 3:20 AM in Cincinnati, but I won't get home until around six or seven. Could you and Dad drive up and pick her up, then stay with her until I get there? I don't want her sitting alone in my house for hours."

There's a pause, and Joe can practically hear his mom's understanding smile through the phone.

"Of course we can do that. Your father's already getting his keys."

"Mom, I knows it's the middle of the night—"

"Joey, if that girl is dropping everything to come here for you, the least we can do is make sure she's taken care of until you get home."

Relief floods through him. "Thank you. Seriously."

"I'll find her," Robin says. "She'll probably look exhausted."

"Yeah, she just finished a TV show in New York and got on the first plane she could find."

"I'm finally going to meet her," Robin says, and Joe can hear the mixture of excitement and concern in her voice.

"Yeah. I just... I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Honey, she's coming because she loves you. The circumstances don't matter."

After they hang up, Joe texts Riley: My parents are driving up from Athens to pick you up. Robin and Jimmy Burrow, they'll be at baggage claim. They're going to stay with you at my house until I get home around 7 AM.

Riley's response comes quickly: Joe, it's 3 AM and you're asking your parents to drive two hours to pick me up? I can't let them do that.

Too late. Already asked. Dad's already in the car.

I'm going to feel terrible about this.

Don't. They want to meet you anyway. And I don't want you sitting alone in my house for hours.

This isn't exactly how I imagined meeting your parents.

Joe stares at that text for a long moment. He hadn't really thought about Riley meeting his family before, but now that it's happening, it feels right. Inevitable, maybe.

They're going to love you, he types back.

I hope so.

Promise. See you in Cincinnati.

* * *

X (Twitter)

@NFLNewsNow BREAKING: Bengals QB Joe Burrow suffers season-ending wrist injury during Thursday Night Football loss to Ravens. Surgery expected within days. #Bengals #NFL

@SportsCenter Joe Burrow's 2023 season is over. The Bengals QB suffered a scapholunate ligament tear in his right wrist during tonight's game in Baltimore. 📺: ESPN

@PopCultureDaily Riley Carter just performed on @colbertlateshow but apparently left before the interview portion? The band did the interview without her. Wonder what was so urgent 👀

@bengalsfan2012 Replying to @PopCultureDaily Wait wasn't this the night Joe got hurt? Timeline seems suspicious...

@musicnews247 UPDATE: Sources say Riley Carter had a "family emergency" and had to leave Colbert taping early. The Rambles covered for her during interview segment.

@rileystanaccount Something's not right. Riley NEVER misses interviews. She's been promoting this tour for months. What kind of family emergency happens at 11 PM on a Thursday?

@footballwife23 Did anyone else notice the timing? Joe gets hurt around 9:30 PM, Riley leaves Colbert around 11 PM. Just saying 👀👀

@bengalsbabes Replying to @footballwife23 I've been saying they're together for MONTHS. This basically confirms it

Instagram Stories & Posts

@entertainmenttonight 🚨 JUST IN: @rileycarter unexpectedly left tonight's @colbertlateshow taping due to "urgent family matter." The singer performed but skipped the interview portion. Swipe for more ➡️

@deuxmoi Submitted Anon: "Was at Colbert taping tonight. Riley Carter seemed fine during performance but left immediately after. Heard someone say she was getting calls during commercial break and looked really upset. Band members covered for her with Stephen."

@popsugar Riley Carter makes rare early exit from late night TV 👀 The "Daylight" singer left @colbertlateshow before her scheduled interview, citing family emergency. This comes just hours after Bengals QB Joe Burrow's season-ending injury... 🤔 #RileyCarter #JoeBurrow

r/bengals

Title: Anyone else think Riley Carter is flying to Cincinnati right now? Posted 3 hours ago

The timing is too perfect. Joe gets hurt around 9:30, she leaves Colbert around 11. "Family emergency" my ass. She's definitely on a plane.

UPDATE: Just checked flight tracking apps. There was a red-eye from JFK to CVG that left at 11:47 PM. Landing at 3:20 AM. 👀

Top comment: No way they're actually together though right? Wouldn't we have seen them by now?

Reply: They've been SUPER private if they are. Remember all those rumors that started back in February? But nothing ever confirmed even after all these months.

Reply: If this is real, Joe's making a huge mistake. She's nothing but drama and bad headlines. Remember that bar fight with her ex? We don't need that circus around our franchise QB.

Reply to reply: EXACTLY. She's been linked to like 3 different guys this year. Party girl with substance abuse rumors. Joe needs to focus on football, not babysitting some rock star.

Reply: Called it months ago - she's a clout chaser. Probably saw Joe get hurt and smelled an opportunity for sympathy headlines.

Reply: If Joe's really dating her, his performance this season makes SO much sense now. Dude's been off his game.

r/rileycarter

Title: What "family emergency" happens at 11 PM on a Thursday??? Posted 2 hours ago

Riley has never, and I mean NEVER, bailed on a major interview. She's done shows while sick, she's done press with bronchitis, she showed up to that radio interview the day after her grandma's funeral.

This is about a boy. Specifically a quarterback boy. Calling it now.

Top comment: The math is mathing. Joe injury -> Riley panic -> immediate flight to Cincinnati.

Reply: But why would she do that if they're not serious? You don't drop everything for a casual thing.

Reply to reply: EXACTLY. This feels like real relationship territory.

TikTok

@nflteaa (457K followers) Video showing side-by-side timeline "POV: You're connecting the dots 👀"

Sound: "And all the pieces fall right into place"

Comments: "NO WAY this is a coincidence" "She really said family emergency and got on a plane to Cincinnati I can't 😭" "This is either the most romantic thing ever or I'm delusional" "Plot twist: they've been dating this whole time"

@popculture.detective (1.2M followers) Video compilation of clips

Comments: "The way she RAN to that airport"

"This is giving secret relationship energy"

"Imagine dropping everything and flying across the country for someone 🥺"

"OK but if this is real they're actually perfect together???"

@riley.carter.updates (89K followers) Screenshot of Colbert audience member's tweet "GUYS. I was at the taping. Riley did her performance but then just... left. Didn't do the interview. Band said 'family emergency' but she looked completely shaken. Security rushed her out during commercial break."

Text overlay: "Family emergency or boyfriend emergency? 👀"

#joe burrow #jiley #hide fanfic #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow fluff #nfl fanfic #nfl fan fic #nfl fanfiction #joe burrow smut #nfl smut #joe burrow series #joe burrow x oc #nfl x oc #nfl fluff #joeyb #Joe burrow series #nfl series #Spotify

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exgirlfiend · 6 months ago

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thinking abt swaine and I just don’t think there’s any Good Faith in depth analysis of his character so I’ll be the change I want to see in the world and do it. get ready for a Long One

first of all, he doesn’t leave in spite of marcassin, he leaves BECAUSE of marcassin. he’s not selfishly leaving him behind for his own gain, his leaving is directly tied to his love for his brother. he doesn’t want to get in his way, because he’s not going to be the sage, marcassin is. he’s not going to be the emperor, marcassin is. all he’s going to do is Get In The Way of that. and he doesn’t feel like he can help him anymore (the emperor telling him that marcassin has nothing to learn from him + marcassin seemingly being Bad at Magic around him probably confirm this. he’s not helping. no one needs him there.) so he thinks he’s better off just staying out of his way so he can’t hinder him anymore. he loves his brother and wants the best for him, and in his mind the best thing for him would be if he Wasn’t There to mess everything up. is it right for him to have left marcassin all alone for so long? obviously not, but this was a 15 year old kid who felt unwanted and unappreciated and like he was just getting in the way of the person he loved the most. yeah yeah “I think he acted this way bc he was literally 15” is a cheap defense, but he was a kid impulsively making a bad decision that he thought was right. yes it was selfish and he DID also want to try and prove himself as not being a failure to his father (who he very much thought hated him and wanted him gone anyway; we know this wasn’t completely true because the emperor immediately asks what happened to gascon when he finds out marcassin is the emperor in the future and calls swaine his beloved son,,, but gascon certainly didn’t feel loved in that way and one has to wonder why) but. in the end it was all for marcassin. and marcassin wanted him to stay so badly, and he was trying so hard to get him not to leave, but swaine didn’t feel like he wanted him there, because why would he? all he was doing was forcing him to practice magic, which he obviously wasn’t enjoying and was actively pretending to be bad at for a reason that gascon couldn’t figure out (to spite him? to get him banned from helping him? because he just doesn’t care? he doesn’t understand that he’s trying to get him to STAY because why would he ever want that?). all he was doing was getting in marcassin’s way, and in his mind that must have meant that marcassin would want him gone too.

and like. I DO think that he made the wrong choice and there were so many other options that would have been less harmful, and he did ultimately pick the one that would benefit himself more than anyone. but he had no way of knowing that he was leaving marcassin alone. he was supposed to be leaving him with their father, who could teach him better than he ever could. how was he supposed to know that he would die that exact same day? he likely didn’t even KNOW that the emperor died right away either, because who was gonna tell him? he’d likely already left autumnia by the time the news got to him. and at that point, he might not have had an easy way back.

and we SEE that he’s absolutely desperate to get back to marcassin, leading him to literally follow oliver and esther into al mamoon just for a CHANCE to get a ticket onto that ship. he even says that “it’s all for him” when confronted. even with the worst form of heartbreak (need I remind you that he had a nightmare?) all he can think about is his brother because he NEEDS to get back to him more than anything. we don’t know how long he was heartbroken for or how long he had a nightmare or how long he’d been trying to get back to hamelin. he likely was too stubborn to go back right away, but…how many of those 15 years were spent desperately trying to claw his way back and being denied at every turn, both from his own lack of restraint and from others telling him he couldn’t? is it any wonder it took so long, based on how many obstacles we can SEE were standing in his way? also, when he steals the photo of marcassin from oliver, he refuses to give it back even when he’s not heartbroken bc he “can’t have it making the rounds”, since (and this was kind of lost on me bc I already knew who marcassin was prior to playing) they only know that he’s the sage; they don’t know that he’s also the prince. and the sage is just the “prince’s servant”, anonymous, unknown. except if you have a photo showing you exactly what he looks like and who he is. and swaine KNOWS what happened to the sages. he knows they’re all either heartbroken or dead from shadar. and these kids want to drag marcassin into helping them fight him (but nobody stands up to shadar and lives. nobody). he’s trying to protect his brother from them and from shadar. he so very clearly still cares about him and wants to keep him safe even if he’s not in hamelin with him. he’s looking out for him.

and on top of that, we’re SHOWN that he regrets his decision. he knows it was wrong, even if he can’t admit it. he tries to convince gascon not to leave when they’re in the past. he’s had time to think. he’s not an irrational and impulsive 15 year old anymore. he knows that marcassin ends up heartbroken. he knows WHY marcassin was pretending to be bad at magic. he knows that marcassin didn’t want him to leave. and he knows that he can’t change the past but…well he has to try, doesn’t he? maybe things can go right this time if he just explains things to gascon. he didn’t understand. he was always so stubborn. but maybe he can spare his brother the suffering he put him through if he just…tries. and it doesn’t work. of course it doesn’t.

he never apologizes (that we see). I’ll give you that. he should and he doesn’t. but it’s so clear that he regrets it. that he wants to apologize but just. can’t. because that means acknowledging that he hurt his brother and he just…can’t accept that he could do that. in their dotdd argument we can SEE that swaine is trying to rationalize what he did. he was just getting in marcassin’s way, and that’s all he does, he holds people back. he knew marcassin could do well, and he didn’t need to be there to hinder him any further. him leaving was a good thing, wasn’t it? he’s trying to convince marcassin, yes, but…maybe he’s trying to convince himself of it too.

and in regards to how he acts towards marcassin after coming back: “he calls him a ‘sniveling little wimp’ and says he’s ‘more trouble than he’s worth’ even AFTER being told he’s brokenhearted” yes! he does! but can you imagine leaving everything behind, being all alone in an unfamiliar place, being heartbroken, having a literal nightmare possessing you, all for the sake of trying to help your brother in your own flawed way, just to come back and have him tell you that he has no gift for magic (when the whole reason you left was bc he has a gift for magic and you don’t)? to have him basically spit in your face like that? it’s selfish and petty, yes, it absolutely is, but have you never said something mean in a moment of anger? of course he would respond that way. he speaks first and thinks later, it’s what he does. and I do think that marcassin deserved to be mad at him and yell at him and take out all of his buried anger and resentment on him because he definitely did the wrong thing and hurt him, and he doesn’t even seem all that outwardly apologetic about it, but…I can’t say that I blame him either. I don’t know what I would have done in his shoes.

and then he leaves marcassin again. and of course he does! he’s traveling with these two kids that are trying to stop shadar and he’s SEEN what shadar is capable of. he watched his father die at shadar’s hand. he FOUGHT shadar himself alongside these kids. he can’t just…let them go by themselves. he could stay with marcassin, and he’d probably be safer if he stayed with marcassin, but he can’t bring himself to send these kids into danger by themselves. he cares about them too much. yes, he just came back, and yes, he has to leave him again so soon but,, they come back to marcassin multiple times throughout their journey. he’s not leaving for good this time (they talk and work together during the clarion event! we see them talking on the iron wyvern! marcassin joins the party!). but he has to finish what he started. and y’know maybe he’s using chaperoning them as some kind of selfish way to make up for what he did to marcassin, because look, he’s not leaving them, he’s protecting them, he’s their guardian, he’s doing everything right this time. can’t you see that he’s doing everything right this time? and maybe it’s just him trying to Prove something to himself but…is that really so wrong? is it a character flaw to…want to improve? to try and do better when given the chance? we see time and time again that he’s Afraid and hesitant and cowardly and he screams when things get Scary and yet he always stands his ground and follows right behind them. these are his friends and he’s tired of running and he’s going to stand by them every step of the way. I don’t like father figure swaine but…I do think he sees himself as their older brother (whether they also see him this way is. probably unlikely). and he’s not going to leave them this time.

and on that note let’s talk about how he acts after the vileheart fight. esther and drippy make it clear that he keeps running away, so clearly he HASN’T improved, right? he’s still running away from his problems. but he straight up tells us WHY he keeps running away: he’s not helping. him being there isn’t going to make oliver wake up. and that SCARES him. oliver has saved them time and time again, and he can’t return the favor. he’s right back to feeling completely useless and he doesn’t know what to DO. but he never goes very far. it’s clear he’s not actually running away from them (esther is always able to find him and bring him back. he’s just leaving the city and that damn room for a bit). but suddenly he’s a scared 15 year old again and he’s incapable of helping the people he cares about and no one wants or needs him around anymore. and he’s falling back into his old habits. and that’s terrifying. but he does something different this time: he STAYS. he stays when vileheart shows up. even though they can’t win. even though oliver might not wake up. he fights with esther anyway.

and yknow what? he’s mean, and he argues all the time, and he always says the wrong things at the wrong time, and he pisses people off. those are true statements. I won’t try to rationalize or explain to you why he’s actually just ~misunderstood~. he’s a cocky jerk. he has genuine moments where he shows that he cares. he says nice things. he also says rude things. he mostly says rude things. he’s burying a lot of his softer feelings under a layer of snark and deflection. I find that endearing. not everyone does. it’s whatever.

I could keep going but I just. head in my hands. I care about him so much he’s so important to me. and yeah you may think I’m being too soft on him and giving him too much credit and maybe he deserves a way more critical and mean analysis that shows what a real jerk he REALLY is but. I genuinely think he’s trying. I see so much of myself in him. and it hurts that no one seems to want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

#ni no kuni #ni no kuni swaine #this kind of got away from me sorry #scheduled this so it’d post while im asleep bc I’m Afraid.

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